Day 1…

Fishing trip. The road out. First stop, a gas station. Fuel for the car, fuel for us. Chips, jerky, sugar in the form of candy. Necessary provisions. Hours later, Clear Lake. Hunger calling, we pulled into Panda Express: orange chicken, fried rice, sugar and salt doing what they’re supposed to do. Back on the road.

Arrival. The quiet part begins. Tents pitched, gear laid out like tools of an ancient trade. The ritual of making a temporary home. Sit for a minute. Take in the air. Others wandered the campground, curious. We stayed put, letting it sink in.

Dinner run, Culver’s. Burgers, custard, Midwest comfort, fluorescent lights. Then Walmart, the pilgrimage for things we forgot, things we’ll probably forget again tomorrow.

The day ends as it began, on the road, back to camp. Chasing something simple: fishing.

Day 2

Woke up. Campers stirred early. No escaping it. The thin nylon walls of tents don’t keep out much. Light, sound, or the rumbling of cars. Hygiene rituals by the bathrooms. Cold water splashed on faces. Breakfast on the 2 burner stovetop. pancakes and bacon. Orange juice, apple juice, to fuel the day. While it cooked, campers dragged gear out of the tents. One night only at Clear Lake meant pack-up morning.

Plates scraped clean. Gear stowed fast. Then the shift, off to Bob’s Marine. We found Jake. Local guy, sun-creased face, knew his way around the water. He hauled the pontoon into place like it was nothing. We piled on. Open water. Seven rods set. Waiting for luck to show itself.

Twenty minutes. Nothing. Then camper Jayme yelled, fish on. First strike of the trip. Walleye. Solid catch. Spirits lifted. We stayed on that spot until the pontoon traffic closed in too tight, then slid closer to shore. Shallow water, thick grass. Felt right.

Heat rising. Lunch on board. After that the bite turned on. Yellow perch, white bass, steady action. Seventeen fish total. Everybody pulled one in. The walleye stood out, the prize of the day.

By the end, the lines were reeled in, and bodies went overboard. Quick swim. Cooling off. Docked the boat. Loaded the van. Gas station stop, Kwik Star. Pops, corn dogs, smoothies, snacks. The ritual.

Next camp, Backbone. Gear unloaded, sloppy joes on the stovetop. Evening around the flames. Stories of the day, the ones that got away, the ones that didn’t. Tomorrow it’s the streams. Rainbow trout waiting.

Day 3

Backbone State Park. Morning starts with waffles, sausage patties, and bad coffee. Then straight to the lake. The bluegills are eager; they practically jump on the hook. Camper Nick pulls in a bass. We wrap it up, wander back to the campsite, and eat.

The afternoon drags in a comfortable way. Some hike, some sit, everyone trying to shake off the heaviness of lunch. Later, the streams call. Trout water, clear and cold. Rainbow trout are different. Suspicious little ones. They’ll watch the bait drift past their noses and sneer at you. Two lucky hands manage to land them. Most of us just get schooled.

Evening. We roll into town, hit Subway, stock up on whatever essentials pass for essentials out here. Back at camp, there’s firelight, chitchatting, football throwing, and music playing. That’s the day. Tomorrow, Camp Courageous.